


The Blood on One's Hands

by EeveebethFejvu



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Dom/sub Undertones, Edgar Swansea's Immortal Fetish, Hurt/Comfort, Introducing Jonathan Reid's New Hand Fetish, M/M, Sexual Tension, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveebethFejvu/pseuds/EeveebethFejvu
Summary: “But how can I hope to ever resume my former duties as a surgeon,” Jonathan laments, “if I am constantly in danger of losing control of myself at the first sight of my patients’ blood?”“That is quite the predicament,” Edgar admits.
Relationships: Jonathan Reid/Edgar Swansea
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	The Blood on One's Hands

So singularly and intently focused is Jonathan on the task at hand that it takes him a good minute to notice the spots of scarlet prickling at the edges of his vision.

All of his senses are already preoccupied, his every thought turned inward as he assiduously tracks the overall progress of the operation. The arm strapped down to the surgical table before him is a living replica of the diagram he had presented to Thoreau and Waverley during their first pre-operational meeting: the flaps of skin cut with expert precision, delicately parted to present the slender bones and muscles packed neatly underneath. He inspects the interior of the incision a final time, prodding the repaired tendons gently with the tips of his forceps. Satisfied, he strikes the completed task from his mental schematic, then blindly passes the blood-slicked instrument off to the waiting Nurse Hawkins.

“Suture,” Jonathan commands crisply, but the curved needle is already being pressed into his hands and he delves immediately into the next stage of the procedure. His gaze never leaves his work for a moment, even as he blinks to combat the gathering spots in his eyes. “Ackroyd, update. How is Mr. Fiddick doing?”

“Pulse is slightly elevated,” he hears Waverley say from the head of the surgical table. “But his breathing is steady. No need for further anesthetics at this time.”

“Strickland?”

“He’s getting a little pale at the fingertips, Dr. Reid,” Thoreau replies. Jonathan senses rather than sees the junior doctor shuffle in place. He is stationed on the far side of Harvey Fiddick’s sedated body, prepared syringe in hand. “Shall I administer the next transfusion now?”

“Yes,” Jonathan murmurs, “go ahead. And _slowly_.” He shakes his head, trying to clear his vision. Pinching two flaps of skin together with one hand and pressing the needle in with the other, he continues, “We can’t afford to oversaturate the… ah… hm…”

Blood spills over the sides of the incision, coating Jonathan’s fingers in a thick layer of organic fluid. And then the blood is suddenly all he can see, a devastating wave of bright red, almost luminous in the descending darkness of his vision. The pervasive stench of antiseptics is immediately expunged from his senses by a too-familiar metallic pungency that floods his nasal cavities and lays heavy on his tongue. Thoreau’s and Waverley’s clinical chatter recedes from his mind, a barely audible murmur beneath the overpowering surge within Harvey Fiddick’s circulatory system. The quickening throb of a straining heart pounds deafeningly within Jonathan’s ears, and he can’t ascertain whether it is his patient’s accelerated pulse or his own.

_Not again!_

Jonathan rears back, tilting his head up towards the ceiling even as he holds his blood-drenched hands stiffly in place. He feels the now-familiar itch in his upper gums, the sickening downward shift of his cuspids, each scalpel-sharp. He squeezes his eyes and lips tightly shut, wanting to hide, to retreat into the safety of the shadows, but he can’t. He is already too exposed. He is the center of his colleagues’ attention, his countenance and his conduct laid bare beneath the white electric lights of the surgical suite.

It had taken his conscious mind far too long to recognize the encroaching scarlet haze in his eyes for the dire warning that it was, and now Jonathan is spiraling downward once more, his treacherous body unrepentant in its ravenous desire for the sole substance capable of sustaining it.

He fights to regain control of his senses, to swallow down that insatiable thirst as it tears its way through his insides like a wild beast. With every second that passes, the battle seems less and less winnable, much less survivable. Faintly, through the roar of blood in his ears, Jonathan thinks he hears voices speaking his name — _Dr. Reid? Dr. Reid?!_ — but he can’t risk opening his mouth to answer them. He feels his hands begin to quiver in spite of his determination to hold still. The suture needle, thin as it is, grows painful and hot trapped between his finger and thumb.

He tries in vain to bite down on the inside of his mouth, to relieve some of the unbearable pressure, but his body does not crave its own blood. It wants the blood of his patient — _his prey._ Unconscious and restrained and already beautifully carved open: a perfect feast. His body demands nothing less than every last drop of blood in this living creature’s veins, and it will not relent until it gets exactly what it wants.

Then something tightens around his left forearm. A squeezing, vice-like pressure twists the fabric of his lab coat sleeve, burning the pale skin beneath it with the friction. The sudden flare of pain stuns the beast inside him for only a heartbeat, but it’s just long enough for him to recognize his name — _Jonathan!_ — as it is hissed urgently in his ear. It is exactly the distraction he needs, here in the last seconds before he loses himself completely. Jonathan seizes the opening with utter desperation, clawing his way back into a tenuous form of control. With monumental effort, he manages to still his hands and, with a shuddering breath, lowers his head towards his chest.

“Here now, Jonathan,” the voice near his ear says, cordial yet firm. “Step aside, please.”

He feels warmth and pressure against his side, another body crowding into his space. The tight grip on his forearm releases, and Jonathan feels fingers prying at his own, carefully lifting his stiff hands away from Harvey Fiddick’s body. His first instinct is to bare his readied fangs — _they are attempting to steal my prey!_ — but he crushes down the hostile impulse. Instead, Jonathan tries to resist his hands’ removal. _No! My patient_ _’s life is in danger!_

But then the voice, suddenly familiar, continues in the same tone as before, “Pass the needle to me, there’s a good chap,” and Jonathan finds himself slowly, almost angrily relenting.

“Are you alright, Dr. Reid?” he hears Thoreau say. Jonathan opens his eyes a crack, risking a glance across the surgical table. The deafening pulse and sweet-iron scent have largely retreated from the forefront of his senses, but for a moment, his colleague does not appear human, merely a shadowy vessel pulsing with organic red light. Then the haze dissolves completely and Jonathan can see Thoreau’s face, his alarmed expression. Fear shines in the man’s wide eyes; it matches the fear Jonathan heard in his voice, the high-pitched waver of concern. Abruptly, he finds himself concerned about what sort of expression — what perverse proclivity or desire — Thoreau might have seen crossing his own face.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” the voice beside Jonathan states airily, dismissively. “Once he takes a bit of a breather.”

Jonathan tilts his head and squints down at his most-timely rescuer. He is unsurprised to find Edgar at his side, appropriated suture in hand, returning his questioning stare. Through the glint of his fellow doctor’s glasses, Jonathan can see Edgar’s eyes, that sharp and perceptive gaze he has already come to know so well over the past six or seven weeks of their acquaintance. In this delicate moment, Jonathan feels himself torn between finding that gaze, and the man’s presence, either an immense relief or a great frustration.

Unperturbed by whatever it is that _he_ sees in Jonathan’s eyes, Edgar flashes him a quick, tight smile. “Do allow me to take over for you,” he says, gesturing slightly with the bloodied needle.

Jonathan swallows hard, his throat tight with emotion and unfulfilled thirst. He can feel that his cuspids have not yet fully retracted. Trying to keep his mouth closed, he mumbles, “This procedure… If the skin is not rejoined properly, Mr. Fiddick will undoubtedly lose sensation—”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware,” Edgar says, almost flippant. Jonathan experiences a flash of irritation at the press of the man’s elbow against his ribs, nudging him aside from his position at the table. “I’m well versed in the procedure, Jonathan, and I’ve reviewed your schematics thoroughly. I know how to continue from here.”

Intellectually, he knows Edgar is telling the truth. After several weeks of effort, Jonathan had finally managed to mediate a provisional truce between Waverley and Thoreau on the Fiddick case, and once the three of them had settled on an acceptable surgical strategy, they had presented their joint plan to Edgar. As Pembroke’s head administrator, only Dr. Swansea could officially approve the operation — and he had, rather quickly and without fuss.

But Jonathan had watched Edgar read through their notes and examine their diagrams with the same acute gaze he so often seemed to turn on Jonathan himself, and although his managerial work largely kept Edgar out of the operation room these days, Jonathan is aware of the man’s reputation as a surgeon. Undoubtedly, Edgar has the knowledge and the ability to complete Jonathan’s work in his stead.

Still, Jonathan finds himself unwilling to relinquish his position.

“Jonathan,” Edgar says, and his tone is still pleasant. But when he adds, “You may leave now,” Jonathan can tell that his words are not a suggestion. They are a command, one from a superior to their subordinate, and if Jonathan’s time at the front taught him anything, it was the critical necessity of following such commands without delay.

And yet Jonathan hesitates even now, wavering, until Edgar — his voice suddenly low and forceful — snaps, “ _Stand down, Dr. Reid._ ”

Stunned, Jonathan obeys.

He steps back from the table, almost stumbling over his own feet in his haste to comply. The soles of his fine leather shoes squeak against the tiled floor, awkward and uncouthly loud in the abrupt hush of the room. He holds his blood-covered hands close to his chest and out of Edgar’s way as the senior doctor steps neatly into Jonathan’s vacated position.

He stares at the back of the man’s lab coat as Edgar bends over Harvey Fiddick’s body and continues the sutures that Jonathan had barely begun. He carries on, Jonathan observes numbly, as if there had been no interruption in the procedure, as if nothing were amiss. As if Edgar’s newest hire — Dr. Jonathan Reid, esteemed surgeon and preeminent blood transfusion specialist — had not clearly been a heartbeat away from sinking his fangs into a defenseless patient in full view of several prominent members of the Pembroke Hospital’s staff.

 _Leave now_ , Edgar had said. Even without looking, Jonathan can feel the continued weight of Thoreau’s fearful gaze, can sense the suspicion and judgment radiating from Waverley’s scrutiny. Even Nurse Hawkins must be staring at him with confused concern, if not outright revulsion. He is unable to bring himself to check, to see if his presumptions are accurate.

Casting his eyes down to the blood-speckled floor, Jonathan lurches into motion, striding briskly around the table and past his stationary colleagues. Nurse Hawkins hastens to get out of his way as, with a burst of force, he shoulders open the room’s double doors and sweeps out of the surgical suite, the tail of his lab coat fluttering in his wake.

The second-floor hallway is thankfully empty, but Jonathan doesn’t slow his pace until he’s outside the door to his own expansive office. He turns the handle, leaving bloody fingerprints behind on the knob, and slips inside. He barely manages to shut the door behind him — he is in too much distress to bother with the lock — as he hastens to the nearby sink.

Yanking at one of the rust-covered handles, Jonathan immediately realizes his mistake as not a single drop of water issues forth from the tap. Like much of the building itself, the sink in his office has long been the subject of necessary neglect, yet another victim of a struggling hospital eternally underfunded and desperate for basic repairs. Throughout his weeks of residency in the room, Jonathan has never been able to get more than a tiny trickle from the faucet, the foul-smelling liquid unsuitable even for watering the poor plant dying by his desk.

Jonathan lets go of the handle. He rests the unsullied heels of his palms on the basin’s rim, leaning in to stare at his murky reflection in the large, clouded mirror.

His face is paler than usual, Jonathan notes. Its ashen hue only highlights through contrast the network of prominent veins beneath his flesh and the darkened skin below his colorless eyes. He cracks open his mouth, baring his teeth just long enough to ensure that his cuspids have indeed returned to their normal humanoid state. He sighs out a shuddering breath.

The two sinks back in the surgical suite are fully operational, of course. But after the disastrous and frankly appalling display that he had just made of himself, Jonathan thinks bitterly, there was certainly no way he could walk back in there now, head down and metaphorical tail tucked between his legs. Not after he’d been commanded to leave by the hospital administrator himself, the directive ladened with such steadfast conviction.

Jonathan pulls away from the mirror, retreating backwards from the useless sink. He sits down heavily on the nearest workbench instead and considers the thick layer of blood now drying on his pallid fingers.

The easiest solution is obvious, of course, but Jonathan is loath to go through with it. Slowly, he raises one hand up to his nose and breathes in the sharp, metallic scent. Instinct tells him that the blood itself is pure, vibrant and uncontaminated. Harvey Fiddick is a man in good health, save for the terrible injury to his arm, and Jonathan has no doubt that his blood would taste rich and lovely on his tongue. But it is the blood of a patient, unknowingly and unwittingly bestowed on Jonathan without their consent, and to rid himself of its alluring presence by any other means than washing his hands seems a terrible violation.

Then the tips of his fingers lightly brush his lips — an unintentional caress — and Jonathan is lapping at the tacky, sanguine substance with complete and utter abandon.

Broad strokes of his tongue quickly purge the blood from his skin, and it is indeed as wonderfully delectable as Jonathan had anticipated. He closes his eyes, both to savor the indescribable sensation and to rebuff the reality of his actions. When his fingers are largely clean of their bloody coating, he raises his other hand to his lips and begins the process anew.

Jonathan loses himself in the moment, drowning out the anger and the shame and the disgust raging inside him with the metallic taste of his patient’s blood. How long he sits there licking at his fingers like a starving beast, even after every trace of blood is gone, Jonathan couldn’t begin to say. Minutes, certainly, though it could well have been hours for all he is aware of the passage of time.

It is only when his ears pick up on the sound of footsteps approaching his room that Jonathan is roused from his dark trance. He awakens to find himself nibbling at the ends of his fingers, blunt teeth digging into flesh, seeking out any dry flecks of blood that might be lodged beneath the nail beds. Hearing the creak of the knob turning, Jonathan tries to tear his hands away from his mouth, but he can’t. Perversely, he only gnaws at his fingertips faster, as if any lingering traces might ever be enough to satiate his thirst.

The door opens, faltering at first, then with steady care. Jonathan stares with wide, desperate eyes as Edgar steps cautiously over the threshold and looks around his room. The man’s gaze lands on Jonathan almost immediately, and Jonathan can easily envision what a terrible picture he makes: his face twisted in a furtive, guilty expression and his hands at his bloodstained lips, like a child caught stealing biscuits from a tin.

His dismissal had so astonished him that Jonathan had been thrown into a daze, but being discovered committing such an indiscretion so soon afterwards brings his humiliation to the forefront. Jonathan feels the surface of his face grow hot as if with a blush of shame. Whether the burning sensation is real or psychosomatic, he can’t say. He manages to pull his fingers away from his mouth this time and lowers his hands, resting them lightly on his lap.

There are innumerable apologies that demand to be spoken in this moment, but Jonathan instead finds himself asking, “How is Mr. Fiddick faring? Is the operation over?”

He is unable to decipher Edgar’s reaction to discovering him in such a state, but the man’s response to these questions is immediate and clear. Edgar’s expression grows soft and an amused smile tugs at his lips. He chuckles as he closes the door behind him, using the stained surgical rag in his hand to grasp and twist the knob. Jonathan hears the latch fall into place, locking the door tight. He finds himself both relieved and apprehensive at their now-guaranteed privacy.

“Yes, it’s over,” Edgar says. “And the surgery was a complete success — in no small part due to your own abilities, you know.” The light tone in Edgar’s educated voice is what Jonathan is most used to hearing from the man, and it is this return to normality as much as the words themselves that allow Jonathan to relax. “Mr. Fiddick is still under sedation right now,” Edgar adds, “so we will have to wait and see how his range of motion and sense of touch are after he awakens. But I expect we’ll be able to release him in a few days, once we’re sure the incision isn’t infected.”

“That is indeed a relief,” Jonathan says, and he means it. From his previous conversations with the man, it was clear that Harvey Fiddick was desperate to return to his work and to his children. Jonathan is mollified that he will be able to do so with both his arm and his life intact.

Though the outcome of his case would most certainly have been different, Jonathan reminds himself darkly, if Edgar hadn’t intervened at the last second.

Perhaps noting some shift in Jonathan’s expression, Edgar lets out a sigh and walks over to where Jonathan is seated. The workbench is not very large, but its surface is long enough for two people to rest comfortably side by side. Edgar joins him, sitting down to Jonathan’s left with a tired huff, and silently offers up the rag he is holding. After a moment, Jonathan accepts it. He busies himself with cleaning all vestiges of his own saliva from his hands.

“So,” Edgar declares, when the room is too quiet for too long, “that was certainly something, wasn’t it?” He lets out a dry laugh. “I suppose a post-operative debriefing is in order, though not for the usual reasons.”

“I… can’t begin to express my gratitude to you,” Jonathan says slowly, “for interceding when you did. And my sincerest apologies for—”

“There’s no need for that,” Edgar interrupts.

“No need?” Jonathan stares at him with astonishment. “What do you mean, _‘no need’_? Edgar, I was… I was but moments away from—”

“Biting into Mr. Fiddick’s arm and drinking his blood?” Edgar says, one eyebrow raised in question. “Yes, I am aware of that, Jonathan. The signs were quite clear, after all! The blanching of your face and the abrupt loss of speech, followed by the clenching of your teeth — to mask the onset of your fangs, I presume. And your attempt, of course, to put as much distance between yourself and Mr. Fiddick as possible…”

There is perhaps a little too much enthusiasm in Edgar’s voice as he enumerates the symptoms of Jonathan’s rising bloodlust. After weeks of discussing various aspects of his affliction with the man, Jonathan has grown accustomed to Edgar’s zeal for the topic and no longer finds it as off-putting as he once did. But for Edgar to speak so casually, so flippantly, about the near-incident only serves to make him more uneasy.

“ _I could have killed him!_ ” Jonathan retorts, bringing Edgar’s recitation to an abrupt halt. He watches the excitement leave Edgar’s eyes, only for it to be replaced, not with fear, but with consoling sympathy. “I could have killed him,” Jonathan reiterates sharply, “right there on the table, in front of you and Strickland and Ackroyd. _My own patient_ …” He shakes his head, wiping a clean hand down his haggard face. “I could have torn him apart, Edgar, and no one — not even you, with your stakes and your crucifixes — would have been able to stop me.”

“But you _didn_ _’t_ ,” Edgar points out, ignoring Jonathan’s sigh of exasperation. “You were able to restrain yourself, even when presented with such overt temptation!”

“Only because you were able to distract me!” Jonathan counters. “To interrupt the hypnotic state I had fallen into! I was already too far gone, at the mercy of my own lethal instincts. Without your assistance, I…” He trails off, throwing the surgical rag on the floor in disgust.

“ _Fascinating_.” The word is spoken in a whisper, as if by accident. Jonathan shakes his head. If Edgar’s expression is any indication, the man seems delighted to learn of his own apparent ability to avert Jonathan’s bloodlust with but a touch and a word. No doubt this information will be excellent fodder, Jonathan thinks wryly, for Edgar’s next treatise for the Brotherhood.

“Academically, perhaps,” Jonathan begrudgingly concedes. “But how can I hope to ever resume my former duties as a surgeon,” he laments, “if I am constantly in danger of losing control of myself at the first sight of my patients’ blood?”

“That _is_ quite the predicament,” Edgar admits. Jonathan buries his face in his hands.

This had been his first operation as an employee of the Pembroke — his first time back in surgery since his turning — and Jonathan had gone into the procedure wary yet optimistic. He had, in fact, been quite pleased to return to the surgical table after endless rounds of treating minor aliments and countless nights of solitary research. The impromptu thoracostomy he had performed at Nurse Crane’s dispensary had certainly served as a warning; at the time, he had experienced the same spots of crimson veiling his vision and the same shifting of his cuspids as he had this evening. He’d been able to control himself with Nurse Crane’s patient, however, and Jonathan had erroneously assumed that he’d be able to do the same if any similar situations presented themselves in the future.

But the bout of bloodlust he had just experienced had been far worse than before, more violent and long-lasting. Daunted, Jonathan wondered at the cause. Was it that he was better adjusted now to his new condition, more in tune with his dark instincts and desires? Was it the presence of more living bodies, more beating hearts, close by him in the confined space of the surgical suite? Or was it, perhaps, his own continued reluctance to satiate himself, even on the blood of sewer rats and Priwen hunters, leaving him eternally starving and desperate for relief?

Edgar clears his throat, and Jonathan looks up at the man, disheartened. “I wouldn’t give up on your surgical career just yet,” Edgar says, kind and consoling. “Especially not when it’s been so illustrious up to this point!”

“Surely you can’t expect me to continue operating,” Jonathan says dryly, “when I am such an obvious threat to my patients’ lives?”

“ _You_ are not the threat, my dear,” Edgar contests. “Your thirst for blood is, and _that_ is certainly something that can be better managed, if not yet cured. For an Ekon as young as yourself, you already demonstrate a remarkable level of self-governance around mortals, especially the vulnerable and the weak-willed.”

Jonathan huffs. “So you’ve said.”

“And I stand by that claim.” Edgar sits up a little straighter, radiating an air of confidence and conviction. “I saw the way you fought to preserve Mr. Fiddick’s life, Jonathan, both from your own thirst and from any perceived interlopers that might threaten the success of the procedure. ‘The doctor’ overcoming ‘the beast,’ so to speak.” Jonathan feels a flicker of his earlier optimism returning in spite of himself. “I have no doubt that with the appropriate preparations — and some supervised practice — you will be able to maintain that same restraint and continue to operate without issue in the future.”

Jonathan sits up a little straighter himself, angling his body towards his fellow doctor. “Even if I could, Edgar, you as the hospital administrator can hardly permit me to return to surgery after that wretched display just now! What the others must think of my conduct…”

“Of your migraine attack, you mean?” Edgar appears far too pleased with himself. “It seemed the simplest explanation at the time,” he adds, “and many of a migraine’s symptoms fit your strange behavior. The sudden onset of debilitating pain, the lack of response to outside stimuli, the need to retreat to a dark and quiet place…”

“A clever-enough ruse, I suppose,” Jonathan concedes. He’s treated enough cases of migraine in his life to see the wisdom in Edgar’s choice. “Did they seem to buy this deception of yours?”

“Dr. Strickland and the nurse certainly did,” Edgar says. “Particularly when I ‘let slip’ that you’ve been suffering from terrible headaches ever since your return from France — you might want to corroborate that yourself when you have the opportunity. As for Dr. Ackroyd, well…” Edgar shrugs. “He seemed to accept it, though I know him to be more skeptical by nature. Still, he’s not likely to ascertain a more accurate diagnosis, is he?”

Jonathan relaxes, letting out a sigh. “I certainly hope not, for his own sake.”

It is only now — with the greatest part of his fears assuaged by Edgar’s reassurances — that Jonathan becomes aware of the sweet-iron scent still lingering in the air of his office. He inhales subtly, quickly confirming his suspicions. He is accustomed to the perpetual stench of stale, sickly blood, which clings to every surface in the hospital and permeates the Pembroke’s very walls. But the smell of this blood is fresh, healthy, and very familiar.

Knowing his own person to be clean of Harvey Fiddick’s sanguine fluids, it takes Jonathan but a moment to locate the source: Edgar’s hands, half-concealed and resting carefully in his lap, still covered in viscous blood from the surgery.

There is a part of Jonathan — the sensible, scientific side — that is repulsed by this discovery, that a fellow doctor in this modern age would so blatantly ignore basic post-operation hygiene procedures. But this sentiment is quickly drowned out by a different part of him — the darker, still-ravenous side — that is elated at the sight of more of the blood he so recently enjoyed. After all, this part of Jonathan carefully rationalizes, it would be hypocrisy to accuse his colleague of uncleanliness when Jonathan himself had just ignored the same protocol. Though Edgar would, of course, have had unfettered access to the surgery sinks, and plenty of time after the procedure to wash his hands…

Jonathan hadn’t realized Edgar was speaking again until the man’s voice falters and his words come to a halt. Jonathan looks up from where he’s been blatantly staring at the doctor’s blood-covered hands to find a peculiar, conflicted expression on Edgar’s face. When their eyes meet, however, Edgar’s visage goes soft once more, gracious and sympathetic, just as it had when he’d walked in on Jonathan chasing phantom blood beneath his fingernails.

Jonathan is both affronted and unsurprised when Edgar then raises his right hand with conscientious care and offers it, palm up, for Jonathan’s inspection.

When Jonathan does not immediately respond — instead holding himself unnaturally still — Edgar quips, “‘ _waste not,_ _’_ ” and shoots him a nervous smile. When this elicits no reaction beyond the slight narrowing of Jonathan’s eyes, Edgar chuckles and adds, “I promise that my skin is otherwise fully sanitized.”

It seems he is fated, Jonathan reflects wryly, to never stay annoyed at Edgar for very long.

Between the salivating scent of healthy blood and his superior’s explicit permission, Jonathan cannot come up with any reason not to accept Edgar’s generous offer. And so, with a soft sigh, he submits, cupping Edgar’s hand in both of his own and guiding it up to his parted lips.

From the first stroke of his tongue across Edgar’s sticky palm, Jonathan is struck by how fundamentally different this is from the cleansing he’d performed on his own hands. The frantic desperation he’d felt at the first taste of his patient’s blood never comes. Instead, as he chases the line that arcs from the bend in Edgar’s thumb to his wrist, licking away what has congealed within the shallow crease, Jonathan experiences a rush of pure tranquility. The feeling spreads through his body in a flash, like a sedative injected directly into his veins. Rather than abandoning his senses, he swiftly finds himself more aware of his surroundings than ever before. Beneath the flavor and aroma of blood, Jonathan can taste the natural salt of Edgar’s skin, can smell the caustic tang of the promised disinfectant and a buried whiff of earthy cologne. As he wraps one hand around the back of the man’s wrist, he is sensitive to the texture of soft hair and the subtle rising of gooseflesh on Edgar’s forearm. He feels Edgar’s pulse beating beneath his thumb, how it stutters and accelerates in bursts as Jonathan tongues the last of the blood from his palm.

“There we go,” he hears Edgar murmur, quiet and low and close by. That same voice, which had rescued him from his own self-destruction with its sharp command, now sounds so soothing and dear. “That’s it, Jonathan. Very good. You’re being quite— _Oh._ ”

The gentle praise cuts off as Jonathan closes his lips around Edgar’s index finger and slides it into his mouth, all of the way down to the knuckle. Desiccated blood softens and melts on the flat of his tongue, and Jonathan hums distantly in interest. His pacified mind had told him that this action would be more efficient than licking the blood away one stroke at a time, and this seems to be true. But now with Edgar’s finger caught between his teeth, tingling cuspids to either side, Jonathan wonders if he’s gone too far.

Edgar doesn’t try to pull away, however. His finger is lax in the lukewarm hollow of Jonathan’s mouth. Though his arm seems to tremble in Jonathan’s grasp, this feels like all the permission Jonathan needs for the moment. With the application of gentle suction, he removes the last traces of blood from Edgar’s finger and withdraws it slowly from his mouth with a soft _pop,_ before moving to the next digit in line.

Unlike Jonathan’s fingers, which are long and delicate — _you have an artist_ _’s hands_ , his mother had used to say — Edgar’s fingers are shorter and thicker, though no less dexterous. As Jonathan’s lips linger on the tip of his middle finger, he tongues over the curved, blunt end of the nail, both searching for sanguine remnants and investigating its shape. Edgar keeps his fingernails trimmed and tidy, he notes, even beyond what’s required of his profession. How fastidious, Jonathan muses. The mark of a scholar, perhaps.

At Edgar’s fourth finger, he encounter his first obstacle in the form of an argent signet ring, whose touch immediately causes Jonathan’s lips to tingle and go numb. He pulls away briefly, turning Edgar’s hand over to better inspect this impediment. Its hue puts Jonathan in mind of sterling silver, which might explain the dyspathetic reaction, but at the sight of the seal, he has to wonder if it was forged from orichalcum instead. The signet is in the shape of a miniature shield, its surface emblazoned with a cross and the initials _SP_ , surrounded by a draped ribbon no doubt meant to represent a stole. Jonathan huffs his amusement and, in spite of the slight burning sensation, digs out the sanguine flecks lodged in the signet’s crevices with the tip of his tongue.

The traces of blood on Edgar’s little finger are quickly and easily dealt with, and then Jonathan is slipping the man’s thumb into his mouth, feeling Edgar respond back for the first time as the digit crooks to meet the curling of Jonathan’s tongue. The pad of Edgar’s thumb slides along the slick roof of Jonathan’s palate, the sensation more of a tentative caress than a hard scrape, and Jonathan hums, closing his teeth a little tighter around the joint to keep it from escaping while he sucks away the blood. After a moment, he feels the heel of the pad press against the base of his teeth, and a shock courses through him as it discovers and needles at a sensitive spot near one of his retracted fangs.

With great reluctance and slowly-mounting concern, Jonathan releases his mouth’s grip and holds Edgar’s hand out in front of him, turning it gently to examine his work. Finding the flushed skin quite clean of all but his own saliva, Jonathan closes his eyes against the cold dismay welling up inside his chest. He finds himself unwilling to catch even the slightest glimpse of whatever look of horror must be frozen on Edgar’s face. He feels the hand being pulled out of his grasp and he quickly lets go, relinquishing his claim.

But then another hand — sticky, sweet-scented, and warm — is placed palm-up in Jonathan’s cupped hands, and Edgar is murmuring, “Here you are now; you did very well. But you can’t leave a job half-done, can you?”

Jonathan opens his eyes to discover that Edgar appears quite as serious about this mandate as he sounded. The man’s countenance is hard to read, particularly with the distracting aroma of blood in the air between them, but in his expression Jonathan detects no hesitation, only earnest sincerity.

Edgar should be in some sort of distress right now, he vaguely reflects; and if not Edgar, then _he,_ Jonathan, should surely be experiencing more perturbation than he’s actually feeling at this moment. But he _isn_ _’t_ — he is calm, his body serene and alight with lingering hunger — so Jonathan brings Edgar’s left hand up to his lips and begins to lap the remaining blood away.

Now deeply familiar with the taste of his skin and the shape of his fingers, Jonathan is able this time around to keep his gaze up and locked on Edgar’s face. With sharpened focus, he studies the gentle contours of the doctor’s pinkened visage, silently tracing the soft curves of his cheekbones, the classical slope of his nose, and the broad bow of his parted lips. Behind his glasses, Edgar’s irises are a warm hazel flecked with honeyed gold; his bright eyes are fixated, twitching as they follow the progress of Jonathan’s tongue across his skin.

Beneath the prominent graying of his neat mustache and his slicked-back coiffure, Jonathan detects hints of faded sable or chestnut brown, and he speculates on what might have precipitated this shift in color. Was it age — the normal passage of years? Or the endless accumulation of stress that comes with being not only a doctor, but the head of a struggling hospital?

Possibly both, Jonathan decides, licking traces of blood from the back of Edgar’s knuckles. He knows Edgar is older than he is, though not by how much. He wears his years well regardless, Jonathan thinks; the sentiment is accompanied by a touch more conviction than courtesy might demand.

“I had wondered if this might, perhaps…” Edgar begins faintly, but trails off as Jonathan encloses the whole of his little finger inside his tepid mouth. Jonathan watches as Edgar’s upper lip quivers for a moment before, with a steadying breath, he tries again. “I see that my hypothesis was correct.”

What exactly Edgar’s proven theory is, Jonathan is unable to guess. But a moment later he detects a skittish touch against the curve of his back, strikingly warm through the layers of his clothes. When Jonathan does not flinch, he feels the full flat of Edgar’s clean palm press down and begin to move in a slow, circular motion. So long has it been since Jonathan has experienced such a genuine, soothing, and intimate gesture, that it takes him an embarrassingly long moment to recognize it for what it is (not some unsubtle attempt to wipe saliva off on Jonathan’s lab coat). Once he recognizes Edgar’s intentions, however, Jonathan grunts appreciatively and leans slightly into the touch. He is rewarded by the further softening of the man’s gaze and a slight curve at the corners of his lips.

“I must apologize,” Edgar murmurs, “for the awful tone I used when dismissing you earlier. I’m afraid I must have caused you some measure of humiliation.” The hand on Jonathan’s back glides up to knead at the broad span of his shoulder blades. “I did not mean to reprimand you so harshly in front of your peers. I was merely concerned that you might lash out with an Ekon’s fury if I did not, well, sufficiently assert some authority.” Jonathan feels soft fingertips on his neck above his collar, skimming the edge of his closely-shaven hair, before retreating once more to the safety of his back. “I hope you know,” Edgar adds soberly, “that I consider us equals, Jonathan. Regardless of any necessary formalities.”

Jonathan drags his mouth off of Edgar’s finger, licking his lips and swallowing down the very last particles of blood he can detect on either of their persons. He drops his gaze to the hand still resting within his grasp. “I am… gratified that you hold me in such regard,” he says, finding his voice strangely hoarse in the wake of this unconventional, secondhand feeding. “But you were right to send me away the way you did, Edgar.” He huffs out a dry chuckle. “When I am lost, it seems you are my voice of reason, dear friend.”

The sentiment appears to leave Edgar at a loss for words, and Jonathan takes the opportunity to admire the sight and sensation of the doctor’s hand in his own. He realizes to his bemusement that he is reluctant to let go.

At this, a fragment of memory surfaces in his mind: that of the moment he first arrived at the Pembroke. He recalls clearly Edgar’s firm grasp as he’d helped Jonathan out of the boat onto shore. How uncomfortably balmy the man’s hands had felt against Jonathan’s newly-immortal skin, and how awkward that the enthusiastic Dr. Swansea didn’t seem to have the good sense to let go! Jonathan almost laughs at the recollection of their prolonged handshake, his own vexation, and the way he’d nearly been swept off his feet — _quite literally!_ — as Edgar had started to walk away, still clutching fast to Jonathan’s hand.

And now, Jonathan muses, _he_ is the one holding Edgar’s hand captive for too long, far past the point of general decency.

But within Jonathan’s grasp, he can feel Edgar’s pulse still beating at an elevated rate, the tripping pace anomalous for a healthy man in his prime resting in a sedentary state. Gently, he rubs the pad of his thumb over the thin skin of Edgar’s wrist, mimicking the soothing motion of Edgar’s hand against his back. The action only causes his pulse to speed up more, however, and for Edgar to inhale an odd, fluttering breath.

Indulgently, Jonathan inhales as well, picking up a new scent below the clean fragrance of Edgar’s skin. New, yet intimately familiar: piquant, rich, and iron-sweet. _Blood_ , warm and vital. And, as of yet, untapped.

Jonathan is immediately aware this time of the crimson spots when they begin to gather at the corners of his eyes. Neither this harbinger nor the stirring itch in his gums causes him any great alarm, however. He is determined now to learn to curb this bloodlust, to bring this devilish desire to heel, so that he can resume his occupation as surgeon with full confidence in his own self-control. And what safer place to start this training, Jonathan reasons, than with the one man capable of returning him to his senses with but a whisper and the touch of a hand?

Jonathan lowers his mouth to Edgar’s wrist and lightly touches his damp lips to the thundering pulse. He feels the hand against his back come to a halt; fingers dig into his lab coat, twisting the fabric. A tendril of dark hunger begins to uncurl inside him, and Jonathan wonders if Edgar would be averse to getting more blood on his hands, so soon after they’d been cleansed. Coyly, he glances up at the man’s face, seeking permission, just as the veil of red begins to descend.

From the ravenous gleam in Edgar’s eyes, Jonathan doesn’t think he will mind.


End file.
